


You Need More

by Ouranos



Series: You Need More [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Human, Bullying, Love/Hate, Luxury, M/M, One helluva party, Rebellion, Wealth, abusive language, power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ouranos/pseuds/Ouranos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The animosity Stiles felt towards the Hale family was not noticeable, yet. Not only did their excessive wealth – and little care for the poor – infuriate him, but he had, on more than one occasion, “butted heads” with their son, Derek, with whom he’d gone to high school and, to both their bitter frustration, university. Derek, in his turn, felt nothing but dislike for Stiles. Their dispositions clashed fiercely, one an arrogant stickler for rules, the other free spirited and irritatingly overwhelming. </p><p>a.k.a.</p><p>The Hales throw an extravagant party, and Stiles voices his opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Splendour

The grandeur of the enormous hall was undeniable. The ceiling thirty feet above them, the middle part a glass roof formed by a million small windows, and the mirrors on the left wall turned the room into an image of eternity, as if it went on forever. The hardware floors, a mosaic of dark shades, had been cleaned meticulously, and faintly reflected the rich and vibrant colours of the evening gowns and tuxedos worn by the guests sipping champagne from crystal flutes, chattering with careless smiles and flirtatious looks.

On the right side of the room were located two sets of marble stairs, leading to a gallery which overlooked the room. A few lone couples were perched from the balcony, watching the crowd or admiring the splendour.

Wealth dripped off the golden door handles and the silver trays carried by waiters and waitresses, dressed in crisp and clean suits, elegant nametags pinned to their lapels. Chandeliers illuminated the room in a deep yellow, warm and calming. Wherever one turned their head, one saw jewels on necks, wrists and fingers, and diamonds dangling heavily from earlobes reflecting the light with little sparks. Ladies wore the accessories with a confident air, effortlessly matching them with their evening wear, which ranged from deep scarlet and black to emerald and royal blue, only colours classy and luxurious. Pale, subdued and innocent hues were not amongst the company. Lips and eyes were painted subtly with the richest brands of make-up.

The men looked handsome. They donned suits of dark colours, though most jackets had been removed earlier on due to the warmth. If one looked closely, there would not be a hair out of place on their head. Barbers had been visited during the day, and all cheeks were smooth as ice.

The summer evening was warm and fans were moved expertly by acted or acquired elegance. Cues were taken, and gentle ladies laughed at old and stale jokes told by the gentlemen. The smell of the different colognes, otherwise threatening to be nauseatingly overwhelming, was easily softened by the breeze coming from the open doors behind the stage.

While the stage was occupied by four band members, the rest of the room was either involved in adult conversation or composedly swaying in the dancing area, a square reserved for dancing in front of the musicians.

The occasion for the fest was the celebration of the summer solstice. The family having sent out the invitations, thick creamy paper with a golden contour, was the Hale family. The Hales were numerous, powerful and influential, and very wealthy. One did not live in Beacon Hills without knowing their name, which in the same breath was always accompanied by a sense of awe and trepidation. Whether the awe was justified, was not often discussed. Most people recognized power when they saw it, and in the eleven family members there was no mistaking it. And when next to that, that power was dangerous, then, especially, people were reticent to criticize. The brave souls daring to open their mouths were risking whatever they held valuable in their life: their job, their possessions, their family. The Hales weren’t opposed to using threats as a means to get across the simple message that their rule was law.

The majority of the guests were people of high standard: judges, lawyers, law officers, professors, renowned writers and successful psychologists. If one were to have asked, it would have been unlikely to find a single person in the hall not owning a degree – or a rich spouse. Looking closely still, children were hard to find. If one did find a child, the girl or boy in question looked desperately bored, or was hesitantly putting clean, white teeth into ostentatious looking amuse-bouches. In the Hale family there were only two members who had not yet reached the age of maturity: a girl of seventeen, Haley, currently flirting with a smartly dressed teenager, and a boy of fourteen, Nick, who was sat at the bottom of on one of the stairs, refusing to engage in frequently prompted conversation. After all, meeting another Hale could never fail to benefit.

The remaining nine members of the Hale family were fanned out across the room. There was the matriarch of the family, the leader of the clan, Talia Hale. She ruled her household with an iron fist, and her eyes hid nothing of her fierce nature. Next to her stood her husband of thirty years, David. He was only slightly less tall than she was, and always had a kind smile on his face. Then there was Peter, Talia’s brother, and his wife and their twins, Liliane and Marion, who had been mischievous teenage girls and were now hard working adult young women. Near the mirrors on the left side stood the remaining three Hales: Laura, Derek and Cora. The older two, Laura and Derek, were twins and thus scarily alike in looks. Thick black hair, a pale face, thin lips, sharp cheekbones and faded green eyes that seemed old in their young faces. Cora had a much softer look and in that resembled her father: her skin was darker, her hair and eyes were a dull brown, and her features were rounder and friendlier. Oddly enough, the soft face hid her true nature, for she was not patient or particularly kind.

It was noticeable how the Hales attracted attention. Curious glances, jealous looks, flirtatious winks, tentative smiles, it was no novelty. Talia had taught all her children to accept interaction with grace and politeness. Most of the time, they did.

The four musicians were not focused on the scattered mass before them, but on their performance. The band consisted of two young women and two young men: Sarah, short and slightly overweight with the voice of an angel; Liu, the bassist, with her trademark kohl-rimmed eyes and small smile; Boris, “Bo”, the drummer who was covered in piercings which he had been forced to remove for the evening; and Stiles, the guitarist with a rebellious nature he expertly knew how to keep in check when it suited him.

The animosity Stiles felt towards the Hale family was not noticeable, yet. Not only did their excessive wealth –and little care for the poor – infuriate him, but he had, on more than one occasion, “butted heads” with their son, Derek, with whom he’d gone to high school, and, to both their bitter frustration, university. Derek, in his turn, felt nothing but dislike for Stiles. Their dispositions clashed fiercely, one an arrogant stickler for rules, the other free spirited and irritatingly overwhelming.

The fact that Stiles was part of a fairly successful band did nothing to dull Derek’s dislike. If anything, it grew legs. Derek refused to spare him a glance. Ever since they had known each other, going on more than twelve years now, they had never exchanged any pleasantries, only expressive insults and spiteful glares. Derek focused all his attention on his sisters, while nursing his third glass of alcohol. One look at a mirror told him his cheeks were slightly flushed. When a waitress passed them by, Derek made sure to put down his still half full glass on the tray. The girl smiled politely as she slowed down in front of him. Derek had a difficult time understanding why on earth his mother had agreed to let Stiles’ band play tonight. His mother prided herself on these parties, and it was beyond him why she would risk the chance of some sort of catastrophe, a dramatic yet applicable word when it came down to Stiles.

Unfortunately, Laura’s animated retelling of yesterday’s outing to the busiest and most extravagant restaurant of Beacon Hills did not succeed in keeping his attention. Cora was studying her sister. Derek recognized it as the technique Cora used whenever she was pretending to pay attention: tilt of the head, occasional sound of agreement, but in fact just looking at a face in front of her. Derek’s mind kept drifting to Stiles and the music, and it bothered him. He was already on edge enough –yet another talk of his mother, pleading to get his life together –, and thinking about the irritating pest did not improve his mood.

He checked back in the mirror and was pleased to see his pink cheeks were gone. His suit was dark blue, accompanied with expensive cufflinks his parents had given him for his twenty-fourth birthday two months previous. It was an expensive pair, and the look he had received from a friend of his earlier in the evening proved that it was obvious. Laura herself was flaunting the new necklace she had bought, an intricate show of crystals and small diamonds. Her bare shoulders drew attention to it from all around the room.

Derek turned his head sideways and saw Stiles looking at him while pulling at the strings of his guitar. The look was dead and it was as if he showed no sign of recognition, but Derek knew better. He lifted his brow, and Stiles shifted his eyes to the other side of the room.

Derek excused himself to go look for some food. He detested the food at these engagements, ridiculously small portions drenched in a pretentious effort to impress. Yet, there he was, grabbing one appetizer after the other, hoping to fill his empty stomach. As if she had a microscope, Derek caught his mother’s disapproving eye and quickly turned his back to her. He trailed off, and went to sit down next to Nick, who spoke not a single word to his older brother, as usual. The teenager was even more sullen than Derek, but bore little of his arrogance.

Derek regarded his little brother and suddenly was reminded by all the times Stiles had called him an arrogant, pompous ass. A lazy, rich, mama’s boy. A stuck-up boring brat. Derek remembered how, when he was only twelve years old, he had complained to his mother about this. She, however, had told him he had to learn to fight his own battles. More than once, Derek had trouble understanding his family: they would threaten an individual who had dared to insult them, but when it came down to someone like Stiles, Derek had received no back-up.

Stiles was still playing his guitar, and yet again, Derek’s eyes lingered. Sitting on the stairs, he was somewhat in the shadow, and it suited him fine. No matter how many beautiful people swirled around the room, no matter how many compliments were directed at him, his eyes always drifted back to Stiles. And he hated it. He loathed this fixation, which was more hatred than anything else. Thinking of Stiles left him restless and agitated, as if he were ready to explode. And Derek wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think he fooled Stiles, whose hateful remarks and furrowed brows seemed to contain something else entirely as well: an intimate awareness, as if he knew Derek was attracted to him. And he was. Next to annoying, obnoxious and rude, Derek saw in Stiles something magnetic. There was something about him that made Derek, in equal parts, want to turn away from him and stay in the same room.

Derek knew that that Stiles was principally against formal wear, but tonight he had made an exception. Gone were the unwashed jeans and plaid shirts, enter black slacks and blazer. A skinny tie was wrapped around the collar of a fully buttoned white shirt, one he would probably have stained by now if he were eating. Derek heaved a sigh, aggravated at how much details about Stiles floated around in his head.

Nick spoke, finally. “You are getting pathetic.” Nick’s phone was still in his hands. He was playing some game and small noises came from the phone each time a finger tapped at the screen.

“Excuse me?” Derek asked, insulted.

“Your plaything up there. I don’t know how you plan to separate your superglued eyes, but don’t expect any help from me.”

Derek reacted immediately. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” It didn’t matter how well he knew his brother, Nick’s bluntness surprised him. Plaything? But more importantly, Derek was a little shocked at how obvious he was apparently being.

“Right. I’m convinced,” said Nick.

“Shut up, idiot.”

“I’m right.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Nick!”

“Derek!”, he mocked, lips turned down in an imitation of an unfairly treated child. He didn’t even take his eyes off the screen, the conversation boring him.

“I’m leaving.” Derek exhaled loudly and without waiting for an answer, he got up and left. He swiped imaginary dust from his pants and squared his shoulders.

Meanwhile, the current song playing had drifted to a close. The music was a combination of old and new, nothing too hip, which would violently clash with the ambiance of the party.

Yet again, Derek was staring, even as his body was moving. Stiles walked to a microphone. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, you all look beautiful tonight.” Was it imagined, or was there ridicule in his voice? “Before we finish the evening with our last song, we would just like to thank the Hales for giving us this amazing opportunity, thank you, Talia, _so_ much!” Definitely feigned enthusiasm. “We are honoured, really, to be part of _this_ ,” Stiles gestured widely to the rich hall, shutting his eyes briefly as if in ecstasy. “Anyone would be so lucky. So,” he looked at Derek’s mother and raised an imaginary glass, “this one’s for the beautiful, beautiful Hales.” The air was heavy with something Derek recognized all too well: a game. More precisely, the game that Stiles had been playing since he was young, a game of provocative rebellion.

The other band members, people Derek didn’t really know, took their cues and the game started. Derek was glued to the floor now, his eyes fixed on Stiles, who was shamelessly staring back, with an ugly smirk on his face. The song was upbeat and so startlingly different from what they had been playing before, that the entire room was listening with obvious interest at the change.

Unfortunately, Derek recognized the song, and knew what was coming. So it was no surprise when Stiles and one of the girls sung, “Don’t have to be, a big bucks Hollywood star,” and on to the rest of the refrain. During the verbal accusation of wealth and superficiality, Stiles kept his eyes focused on people all over the room, occasionally pointing playfully at an unfortunate victim. Scandalized gasps filled the air when came the verse, “You need more than  the Gerhard Richter hanging on your wall, a chauffeur-driven limousine on call  to drive your wife and lover to a white tie ball,” while simultaneously Stiles winked knowingly at an older man, of whom it was known he had a mistress –rumours had been floating around. Derek groaned internally. Stiles was digging his own grave, and worse, he seemed to take pride in it. He was smiling as he sang, “you need more, you need more, you need more, you need love.” And with that last word, Stiles smiled at Derek tauntingly, as if mocking him. Derek had never felt more embarrassed, furious and sad at the same time.

The song ended with a repetition of “Don’t have to be, beautiful but it helps.” The ‘beautiful, beautiful Hales’ comment was put into context. Once finished, no one dared to clap. Each of the four band members was smiling, yet Stiles seemed to be the only one not fearing Talia’s wrath and didn’t actively avoiding looking to the crowd. Derek couldn’t help but admire him.

Derek twisted his head until he found his mother. When he did, he felt his stomach drop. Talia looked not angry, but ferociously infuriated and deeply insulted. She was not shaking, but held her body stiff and tight. Derek looked back at Stiles, who stood tall and proud, with a smug grin plastered on his face while he stared at Derek, something challenging in his eyes, dangerous but exciting.

Would his mother let Stiles go freely this time, like she had when Derek and he were only children? Derek feared that this time, she would not let it go, and that realization made him want to punch the guy he was so hopelessly, angrily, unfortunately in love with.

Stiles, defiant and confident, waited patiently with eyes that shot daggers that said, let the games begin.


	2. Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can’t I see how my lovely son is doing?” Saccharine sweet, and absolutely disgusting.

Silence ensured, deafening. Derek wondered who would crack first, who would be the first to voice their indignation –or their agreement.

Though Derek was currently standing still, the rest of the room now began to shift, mostly casting nervous glances at their host or tugging at their neighbour’s arms, as if to convey, _did you hear that? See that?_ Talia shook off her husband’s arm, which had been placed silently upon her shoulder, and strode forward while maintaining her trademark graceful movements.

“Get out, now,” she warned in a low voice that contained not a single trace of a tremor, only steel. Stiles, though no leader of the band, but in other ways a leader nonetheless, nodded and replied, “Gladly.”

The four of them left the stage, taking only the two guitars. The rest of the equipment had been provided for by the Hale family, strangely enough. In retrospect, it made sense. They had known a hasty escape would probably be necessary, and lugging weighty boxes and countless electrical chords while striding away would have ruined the theatricality of the act.

Stiles was the last one to leave –he hopped noisily off the stage–, and Talia stopped him by gripping his arm forcefully. “You’ll regret this, Stilinski.”

“How original,” he taunted. He held himself upright and his trademark grin had disappeared. “I see where Derek gets it from.” He was much taller than Talia, but she didn’t let his height intimidate her. Stiles smiled an empty smile and ripped his arm free, making the woman stagger slightly. Another round of gasps, and Derek was sure that by now his mouth had fallen open.

And of course, of course, Stiles made a small detour across the crowded floor to pass by Derek. People parted in his way as if he were Moses himself. More likely than awe, they backed away because they feared they would be pushed away. Stiles lifted his hand and pushed Derek’s chin upwards, mouth once again closed. “Enjoy your evening, Derek.” Stiles sauntered out of the room without a backward glance, and Derek felt his mother’s accusing eyes on him, as well as countless of other, curious ones. He tried to look innocent and apologetic, but that was not his strong suit and failed in doing so. God, he longed for a smoke.

To the average guest, Derek seemed merely uncomfortable, if slightly embarrassed. They saw his red tinged cheeks and noted how he shuffled from one foot to the other. Two hours ago, Derek was simply Talia’s oldest son. Now, he presented fresh material for the next round of gossip. Was he in on it? How did he know the boy? What was their relationship? Did his mother know about this? 

Someone rescued Derek from the intrusive glances as music started playing softly, drawing attention from the guests. Now that the spell was broken, Derek quickly backed away, desperately longing for the peace in the confines of his bedroom. Unfortunately, he had hitched a ride with Laura, and, knowing her, she would not be ready to go home for at least another few hours. Hours that would be filled with dance and drink. The former of which Derek felt no love for, the latter of which he didn’t want drown in. Reality was harsh and difficult to confront, but, with some odd sense of satisfaction, he realized life was changing and he wished to be a lucid observer. Whether life was changing for the better or the worse, was still unclear.

He sat down next to Nick again, who teased, “Tsk, tsk, Derek.” It thoroughly unsettled Derek how his little brother behaved. Did the boy fancy himself in a film? In fact, Nick’s attitude reminded him of Stiles, alarmingly so. Once that thought entered his mind, he abandoned this post again after smacking the back of his brother’s head. Nick offered no more than a stuck out tongue. Derek had no plans to introduce the two.

A half hour passed, and after his watch indicated that it was 11.15 p.m. on the dot, Talia approached him. His mother liked order and arranged her life in neatly divided time schedules.

“This is not my fault,” Derek said as soon as she was close enough to hear him speak.

“Now is not the time, dear,” she answered. Around her, people tried to listen in and their movements lacked nonchalance.

“You were the one who wanted him here, not me.”

“Not the time, Derek.” That was a warning.

He looked at her for a moment, taking in the wrinkles on her face and said, “Fine. What then?”

“Can’t I see how my lovely son is doing?” Saccharine sweet, and absolutely disgusting. Derek didn’t buy it. He’d grown tired of it over the past few years, finally understanding how void of love her concerns for his well-being was. This was a show, another game, but ultimately, both. A game to show the world nothing was wrong, that the Hales would always stand strong and united, regardless of the little glitch that had happened not forty minutes before. Unfortunately, he felt as if she were the player, he the pawn. Derek repressed the urge to snort. “Your lovely son is bored out of his mind, mother. Your lovely son despises these types of gatherings, mother. Your lovely son-,”

“Derek, honey, don’t talk about yourself in the third person. It’s terribly tacky.” With that, she looped her arm through his and forced him to walk alongside her towards the terrace behind the stage. The doors, made of a playful palette of coloured glass, were wide open. They were truly beautiful, and somehow the only thing in the room Derek liked. The amount of details was captivating and the hours spent on the craft must have been arduous.

From where they were standing, they had a lovely sight of the gardens. The moon was shining and everything was bathed in cold blue light. The hedges had been cut and the stone stairs had been cleaned. Regardless of the attention payed to the state of the garden, it seemed wild, in a way. Maybe because of the numerous flowers, or just the cool darkness. It stood in contrast with the inside, warm and civilized. Outside there was only nature, inside there waited sucking-up guests and crudités. Why hadn’t Derek thought to come out here before? _Oh. Him._

“Derek, darling,” his mother began, “I seem to understand now what I didn’t see all those years ago.” The pet names, which could have been loving, sounded condescending to him.

He said nothing. Mostly because he didn’t really know what to say.

“Your … well, I was going to say friend, but I can see he is not really your friend.”

“You thought he was my friend?” How she would ever had formed that opinion was a mystery.

“Well,” she said uncomfortably while unlooping her arm and facing him, “I was always under the impression, next to your whining about him, you secretly liked him.”

One, she was right. Two, whining? He knew he’d been difficult as a child, but he was growing up. Maybe a couple years too late, but growing up nonetheless.

“Either way, it’s of no matter now. I see I was mistaken. A good thing, because this behaviour of his cannot be tolerated.” She pursed her lips and looked like the mother he had always known: serious, unforgiving.

“What … what are you planning on doing?”

“I do not know, yet.”

Derek hoped she wouldn’t know for a long time. He looked down at his shined shoes while she walked away, her heels clicking rhythmically.

He stayed outside for the remainder of the evening. Laura was drunk and ready to go at three thirty six a.m. He drove, she slept. He thought, she dreamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talia Hales, as opposed in the usual fics, is not a very likeable person. If you expected her otherwise, or if you still do, I'm sorry to disappoint. 
> 
> PS: got two more chapters I'll be posting either tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow.


	3. Sparse

Downtown, in an old apartment building. All the way up top was a very small room occupied by Stiles. He didn’t own an apartment, he owned a room, singular. The walls were white, and cracks ran up and down the surface, like veins. The walls were covered in posters and drawings to hide them. In the tiny space, he cooked, showered and shaved, relieved himself, slept, read, but in all, there was only one thing notable: it was small, very small. There was simply no space for a second person to live. The bed was a single, and his feet and arms always dangled out of its confines. The top floor –his room– was in fact the second floor of a large attic: Stiles had long ago learned to walk around carefully in the available space, because without fault he had bumped his head repeatedly when he first moved in two years ago.

Sanitation-wise, it was a dump: the toilet was clogged half the time and the old super was, most of the time, nowhere to be found. Her name was Fiona and he had seen her only a handful of times. Stiles bought one-dollar, flimsy toilet paper and the cheapest brand of shampoo and toothpaste. Otherwise, he rarely spent money on hygiene products. His shower had horrible water pressure, being on the top floor. After one minute of warm water –or on a good day two –, the streams turned either icy cold or scalding hot. Stiles never knew which one was worse, but his skin decidedly had very strong opinions: boiling was worse. He had no mirror to see exactly how red his skin turned everywhere, but what surface he could see, was a bright lobster red. Stiles didn’t own a laundry machine, and once a week he lugged his dirty clothes –he had very few garments– two blocks down to a Laundromat.

Now the kitchen. Or, the “kitchen”. It consisted of a small, second-hand bought fridge which broke down every couple of months. The handle flew off if he pulled too hard at the piece of metal. Again, the super was of no help. There was one cupboard –hinges squeaking and rusty –, where he stashed all of his food. Then he had a sink, a steel square in which he washed his two plates, three glasses, one bowl, five knives, one spoon and two forks, and where he brushed his teeth and washed his face. To cook his food he had recently given in to an extravagance: a hot plate. Before, he usually ate outside of his apartment, or bought the cheapest take-out, greasy and unhealthy, but heavenly.

Next to the bed, he owned one chair and the tiniest table he had ever seen. The ugly Formica square only allowed one person to sit at it, which worked out fine for him.

Only two things did he hold valuable in this place: one, his guitar, which was always placed directly next to his bed –he owned no nightstand– and two, he had a balcony. Of sorts. What he referred to as his balcony, others may have referred to as a death trap. One of the three windows in the room led to a small flat surface, a tiled space where Stiles spent many summer nights simply sitting or playing music. Why it was called a death trap, had the following explanation. There was no railing, and Stiles was on the sixth floor (laboriously he climbed the sets of stairs, because, of course, there was no elevator). Stiles made sure he never crept too close to the border. Oddly enough, the balcony was quite large, and that was why he liked it so much.

In summer, the room was a tropical temperature. Not surprisingly, Stiles had no air conditioning. He contented himself with opening all three windows at night, if they would open, and letting cooler evening air waft in. Winter was absolutely horrendous. Buying a portable heater was too expensive and there was no heating. Instead, he settled for pooling his money together to buy a woollen blanket, and then invest in thick pyjamas. He’d even started drinking tea, though he was no fan, only because it provided him with some warmth. He’d burned his fingers one particularly cold January evening, holding on to a steaming cup for dear life.

The reason why he lived there was cheapness. It cost very little to live in a shabby room of this calibre. And, yes, the band was somewhat successful, but Stiles had debts to pay. College had been expensive, and what was worse, he wasn’t sure it had been worth it. Finding employment in a city like this when having no influential friends was difficult. Either way, at the moment these were his living circumstances.

Stiles lived alone. His neighbours were people older than him, and he barely knew them, apart from the occasional hello, a nod, how are you today, Mrs. Watson?

It got lonely and slightly depressing at times. Though not claustrophobic, the four slanted walls seemed to enclose him. In winter, whenever he could, he spent his time away from his tiny, tiny room. If he wasn’t at work –working in service as a waiter in one of the many diners in the city – he looked for any warm place that would have him. Usually, he ended up in bars with one of his friends, or wandered in the mall. No doubt strangers thought he was homeless.

Currently, Stiles was getting dressed. He closed the blinds hoping to preserve some of the coolness of the night, but the room was already growing stuffy and warm from the sun’s heat and he was starting to sweat. The bulb, emitting harsh light, swung from left to right after he had bumped into it. There had been a white Chinese lantern, a present he’d received from Sarah a year ago, but the paper had been ruined and had fallen to the floor three days before. Stiles threw his old boxers on his bed, put on a white shirt and a pair of old shorts. The suit he’d worn yesterday hung from a hanger on the steel bar of the shower. He thanked the heavens he’d not stained it somehow yesterday, otherwise he would have to pay extra for the cleaning upon returning the garments. Ben’s older brother, Jamie, worked in a store that specialised in costumes. Fleetingly, the image of Derek’s surprised face flickered across his mind. Obviously he had not expected Stiles to suit up so nicely. Of course, he hadn’t.

He splashed the last of the milk into the bowl and ate whatever was left of the cereal. The bowl was made of ceramic and featured black giraffes on a brown background. It belonged to his mother. Stiles cleaned up the mess he made, for he always made a mess, always. There were milk splatters on the table, and if he didn’t remove them, they would attract vermin. Stiles hated cockroaches with an undeniable passion.

He thought of Derek again. From cockroaches to Derek. He grimaced to himself, because, really, it was an unfortunate connection. He almost felt bad. Cockroaches were decidedly ugly and filthy, Derek was not. And yet hate was present for them both 

Yesterday … yesterday was something to remember. It was something to write epics about, to dedicate songs to, to daydream of. The insurmountable feeling of satisfaction at seeing Talia’s face when their little protest had finished was priceless. And, living in a world where he feared to check his credit balance and had to scrape together enough money to live each month, that was something. Priceless. Derek’s incredulous look was a golden bonus.

Stiles didn’t delude himself into thinking there wouldn’t be any consequences. Neither did he not realize his actions weren’t reckless and damaging. But, after struggling for the past two years since he had left college, and when during that time nothing improved, he thought the time had come to let the Hale family hear a piece of his mind. With ‘nothing improving’, he meant the dire state of the city. Foster homes, promised a complete renewal, remained overly full and the buildings dilapidated. Public schools were forgotten. Homeless people were ignored. And all the funds, every single penny available, seemed to disappear. Stiles knew very well into whose pockets.

Stiles did not fancy himself a superhero or vigilante. Years of seeing injustice happen to others while he was safely cocooned in his parent’s home and away at university –in which said parents had poured all their funds– and then years of it happening to himself made him crack. His parents were broke. He was broke. His friends were broke. The Hales? They were most definitely not.

Derek. The name popped up all too often in his mind. School had been horrible. Too many cowered from the Hales, but Stiles had decided from an early age on that he would take none of Derek’s shit. And Derek did not like that. He was used to walking all over people. Used to getting his way. Used to having a whole table cleared suddenly because he decided that he felt like sitting at that particular table. Used to wearing beautiful, hand-made clothes that fitted him perfectly. Used to being listened to. Now that was an activity Stiles had very much enjoyed during their time together: ignoring Derek, pointedly. Derek asked him to move? He examined his nail beds. Derek shoved at him? Stiles rubbed at his shoulder with a surprised sound and resumed his homework breezily. Derek demanded he turned his music down? Stiles sang, sang, sang. And Stiles smiled. Derek frowned and ground his teeth, like a child.

Often, it was less ignoring and more goading. Like the time Derek and he had received detention because they had got into a physical fight. Nothing too serious, but serious enough the headmaster had sent them to detention. Stiles was sitting close enough to softly blow on Derek’s neck, which he knew irritated him boundlessly. They were sixteen. Unfortunately for Derek, a supervising teacher sat not ten feet away, and as soon as either of them opened their mouths in an attempt to speak, she barked, “Silence!” When the two hours had come and gone –entertaining hours for Stiles, less so for Derek– Stiles had laughed and had sent Derek a wink before dashing out the halls of the school. Derek had always been stronger, but Stiles never, ever failed to outrun him.

Unfortunately, their history was also filled with darker happenings. Name calling, bullying. And while they could potentially have been friends, they never even came close. Neither of them wanted friendship. Stiles often wished as a child and teenager Derek didn’t exist. Then things had changed, not for the better. Where first there had been a wish to be rid of each other, second there came an active liking in their torturing each other. It wasn’t healthy, and each of their respective friend group had often pleaded to put a stop to it.

But worse? The attraction. And the ensuing disgust with himself. How could he be attracted to someone like Derek? He was arrogant and proud, selfish and ignorant. Stiles didn’t know how exaggerated his opinions of the guy were, but they had grown increasingly negative over the years. Hate has a tendency to fester.

Staring at Derek – another fun way to unsettle him – for years, had the unpleasant side effect of truly seeing Derek. He knew every curve and line of that face. He knew how Derek walked and talked. What type of jokes he would make –bone-dry humour. How his lips would curve upwards in a half smile, how expressive his face could be if he let it.

Stiles had a vivid imagination. But also damn strong principles. So nothing ever happened. Stiles wasn’t blind and could see it was reciprocated. It was a big question mark in his life. Sure, he knew of the phrase opposites attract, but if that applied to them, he wasn’t so sure. It seemed wrong, somehow. Too optimistic, too complementary. Opposites complement one another, like yin and yang. If they were yin and yang, he thought with a snort, there was no telling who was the black half and who was the white.

He shook his head, willing his thoughts to change direction. Grabbing his keys, he left his room, locked the door and bounded off the stairs, into the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any native English speakers, is “slant” the right word to use when speaking of walls that are inclined? 
> 
> Also, next chapter: confrontation!
> 
> PS: Unbeta'd, so if there are any spelling mistakes, let me know.


	4. Ugly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this a proper warning: there’s a lot of problems with how Stiles behaves towards Derek. It is an understatement to say he is bitter. He behaves in a cruel fashion, and even though Derek is characterized (in the past at least) as arrogant and selfish, this is taking it a little far.

Thursday evening, eleven p.m. In the streets, people were wandering around. There was a lot of mindless loitering outside of bars, couples sitting on the curb of a sidewalk, talking, smoking. Derek did not loiter. He had a destination and made his way with efficient stride to the end of the busy street where nightlife was in full swing. While walking, a variety of music reached his ears. Soft, languid music, loud and heavy music, jazz, rock, everything. All the doors and windows were opened and people were sitting on window-sills, their feet dangling over the edge as they laughed and touched and looked generally happy.

He quickened his pace. In his breast pocket he held a small piece of paper with an address and a name on it. Number hundred and five. The number he could see on the building where flashed a pink neon sign, “Happy hour from eight to ten!”, was  seventy-seven. He walked on.

A few minutes later he stopped in front of a brick house. On both sides of it, the houses seemed to be regular living accommodations, the night scene having dribbled out. He checked the paper, again, walked up three stairs and inside he went. The music was subtle –something old–, the customers few and the ambiance welcoming. Overhead fans were, in vain, trying to cool down the place. It was an old bar, a proud 1987 hung near the counter. 

The room went a long way to the back, but Derek found what he was looking for immediately, seated at a small round table, tapping fingers on the wood in tune with the music. Eyes turned up, alerted to his presence by the sound of the door opening, followed by a loud, “Oh, gross.”

Stiles sat back in his chair and demanded, “How did you know I was here?” He crossed his arms.

Derek only raised his eyebrows.

“God, do you mean to say that you’re a stalker now? That’s a whole new level added to your lovely personality, Derek. Really, gold medal!”

“No, you idiot. It meant- you know what, never mind.”

“No, no, the suspense is killing me,” Stiles pleaded, “Tell me. What were your eyebrows conveying just now?”

Derek didn’t even contemplate telling him how easy it was to get information on anyone’s habitual whereabouts as a Hale. Stiles frequented this bar with alarming regularity. “Just let it go.”

“No, come on, tell me.”

“No.” Next to them, an old woman was following their interaction with a look of utter boredom on her face. Her eyes were glazed over, and if he didn’t know better, he would say she was drunk beyond measure. The cigarette hanging from her mouth was unlit and when she caught him looking, she occupied herself with lighting it. Then she looked elsewhere. During the exchange, her facial expression remained the same.

“Are you embarrassed?” Stiles was smiling now, but unkindly.

Derek clenched his jaw and bit his lip, hoping to keep the impending insult inside. “No, I’m not embarrassed.” He thought of Nick again.

“No, no, I think you are. I think you don’t want to-,”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles. Let. It. Go.”

“God, you are boring,” he sang-song. Derek hated that.

After a couple of seconds, during which Derek did not approach Stiles, he finally told him why he had come. “You did something really stupid last Friday, Stiles.”

“Oh, no, even _worse_ ,” Stiles replied and he rolled his eyes. “You’re actually telling me you came all the way out here to harass me and actually _threaten_ me?”

Derek felt a strong need to grab Stiles by the collar and … do something. Either land a punch or a kiss. In the back of his mind passed a memory of when Stiles had accused him of being into sexualized violence that time he hadn’t been able to stop staring at Stile’s lips after shoving him. It terrified him. Was Stiles right? God, he hoped not.

“No,” he stated with deliberate calm. It took every ounce of control he had. “I came here to say that it was a mistake, and you should …”

“No way.” Stiles looked at him intently. “No fucking way. Derek Hale came here to warn me, to tell me to watch out?”

“I…” He had not thought this through, apparently. Stiles didn’t look grateful, he looked angry.

“Out of words? Of course, you are. Well, Derek, thanks but no thanks. I don’t need anything from you.”

He ground out with an aggressive edge to his voice, “I was only trying-,”

“What, to be nice? You’re not nice, Derek. You’ve never been nice to me a day in your life,” Stiles sneered. “So you don’t need to start now. Get out.”

In these situations, Derek always struggled. He was always filled with so much energy, most of it being hate, that he was often dumbstruck and could think of nothing to say. Stiles triumphed, and Derek’s anger only grew, in epic proportions.

He stood there quietly for a few moments.

“Have you lost your hearing as well as your personality? Get out.” Stiles could truly be nasty.

“You are a piece of shit, Stilinski.”

“Oh, _good_ comeback. I’m proud.” Stiles place a hand over his heart, and beat it twice against his chest, lips turning up.

“Really? I try to be … nice to you and this is what I get?” The word sounded foreign on his tongue and he was aware of it, but it was true: he was trying.

Stiles let his eyes drift for a second and as they momentarily showed wonder, they betrayed his bitter facade. “I don’t need kindness, Derek, least of all yours. I need your absence.” A true talent of Stiles’ was how to be both eloquent and hurtful. Stiles was good at using language to his advantage, whether to create the illusion of being absolutely fine, or to create dramatic flair in words spoken.

Derek didn’t want to leave. Instead he sat down next to Stiles, who heaved a deep sigh and refused to look at him. “And they tell me I’m stubborn.”

Derek didn’t answer, instead motioned to a waiter. The man –overweight, tall and heavily freckled– scrambled over and took Derek’s order. Stiles toyed with the red straw from his drink and gave Derek the stink eye. It was obvious what for: a waiter at your beck and call. Derek hadn’t thought about it, and supposed that justified Stiles’ reaction. A feeling of unsettlement grew inside him.

“Rich boy gets his every wish. Tell me, does anyone ever say no to you?”

You.

“Oh, of course,” said the mind-reader, “only me, right. God, I don’t know if that’s pathetic or … I don’t know. I don’t even know what to call that. Unbelievable? Disgusting? All of the above?”

Derek felt his blood boil and glared at him. In part, he knew, because Stiles was right. It was something he had struggled with for the past few months. Derek was embarrassed to admit had taken more than twenty years to really see his attitude needed a change.

The waiter returned, hastily walking over to the small table and set down his gin tonic. “It’s on the house, Mr. Hale.”

Stiles sharply shook his head, licked his lips and pinched them. Then gave in and ground out, “You’re fucking unbelievable, you know that?”

“I didn’t even-,” Derek tried.

“ _Don’t._ You know exactly why you don’t have to pay, and you didn’t try to change it. This is probably normal for you.” Stiles was livid by now. Actually, he was whispering, as if he tried very hard not to yell.

Out of his wallet he took a few notes and put them underneath the grey ashtray. It was sticky.

“What a generous tip,” Stiles said. “But I guess you can afford it.” He turned away from Derek and took a large gulp from his drink. Derek was on the verge of defending himself, but refrained. Stiles would just attack.

The next five minutes were filled with silence and strategic avoidance of eye contact. Derek wanted something, but he wasn’t exactly sure what that was. Had they been anything other than what they were –friends, family, strangers, even– the evening would have passed differently. Maybe in polite conversation, inquiring about simple things like hobbies and interests, or conversing about the latest news. Maybe in sibling-like banter, easy and familiar. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But the facts were these: it was not happening, and Derek could paint no picture in his head where it would be the case, at least not if it had to be real.

Derek’s discomfort was interrupted by Stiles, who got up and took his wallet out. “Let me pay for your drink,” Derek suggested, with –he would deny it – a hint of desperation.

Stiles huffed and looked down at the table, put his wallet back after a moment’s consideration and then shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “You know, normally I would say, hell fucking no, but anything to empty your pockets. At least this way money makes it to people who actually deserve it.”

“What the hell is your problem?” And, damn, no, he hadn’t meant to say that at all. One step forward, sixteen million back. It had just burst out of his mouth.

“Finally!” Stiles exclaimed theatrically, raising his hands to the sky as if in prayer, “There’s the Derek we all know and hate. How I’ve missed him.” In another context, those four words might've melted him. Now they slapped him.

“Fuck you, Stiles.”

“Never in a million years, Hale. Never,” he promised with vigour. His eyes shone brightly. And yet again, Derek was stumped. “And we both know you want nothing more.”

Now that was new. They never addressed this thing, whatever it was. It was a low blow, and their conversation turned suddenly much more personal and vulnerable than all the ugly words spat about his undeserved luxury and decadence in the past.

“I don’t understand how you have friends. It baffles me anyone could stand you,” Derek insulted. “How can anyone find you anything but …” He was looking for the right word.

“Oh, I’m really curious to see what you come up with now,” Stiles taunted.

He settled for, “Ugly.”

The reply was instantaneous. “Derek, you and I both know you don’t find me ugly.” Stiles moved away from the table.

Derek didn’t have it in him to smile, nor grin, nor smirk. He watched Stiles sadly as he corrected, “No, I mean, the way you behave sometimes. It’s so … nasty. Abusive.”

For a second, a small but significant one, Stiles’ face fell, as if the words finally had some effect. Derek didn’t blame him: he’d felt as if his usual spite had turned especially malicious, even if it contained truth.

Then, of course, Stiles sobered and the mask was back. “Wow, Derek. You’re calling me out on _my_ behaviour? Take a look in the mirror. I’m sure you have plenty of them in your _humble_ mansion.” Something happened inside of him, and he had enough. He dragged Stiles outside –an easy feat, the bar was small and they were quickly outdoors.

“Still with the manhandling? I thought we talked about this,” Stiles reprimanded. Derek had him shoved up against a brick wall. His fists were balled in Stiles’ shirt. Derek ignored the joke and instead begged, “Just _stop_. Stop. Stop. Stop, please, stop. I can’t do this anymore, Stiles. Please, stop.” 

Their faces were inches apart, and Stiles steadily but slowly pushed at Derek’s shoulders, increasing the space in between them. Then he shook his head. “No, Derek. I’m not going to stop. If I do, who’s going to keep you in check, huh? Who’s going to open your eyes?”

Derek let out a groan. “Have you ever considered the possibility that they’re already fucking open, but yours aren’t?”

“What? I’m genuinely confused now, Derek. Use your words.” Stiles spoke as if he were addressing a five-year-old.

“This!” Derek yelled at him, gesturing at the space between them. “ _This_ is what I’m talking about. You see nothing but your hate for me. You don’t …”

“Is this about you wanting to fuck me again? Because, honestly, I’ve already-,”

“Stiles, _stop_ with the jokes, the insults, I can’t stand it anymore. How do expect me to change if you won’t even let me?”

At that, Stiles stilled. The silence was deeply uncomfortable for two reasons. One, Derek didn’t dare look at him. Two, for once, Stiles had nothing to say.

“Derek, …” he started, sounding completely unlike himself: it was hesitant, soft, and for some reason both terrible and painful to listen to. Maybe because a less than hateful version of Stiles was foreign to him.

“If you dare turn this into one of your fucking games, I’m walking away, right now.” Derek held his breath and lifted his eyes. Across from him, Stiles stood unsure of what to do next.

“I … I, uhm…” He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, I won’t turn this into a joke.”

New territory once again. They hadn’t ever, ever, had a single civilized conversation. Not even their first one was, when seven-year-old Derek had demanded that Stiles hand over his orange juice box.

Derek took a step backwards and sighed. Stiles spoke slowly, “But even if it’s not a joke, or a game, don’t delude yourself into thinking I have any respect for you.”

Derek’s shoulder slumped only slightly but in truth he felt incredibly disappointed with himself.

“Not yet,” came Stiles’ quiet voice, and he held his eyes fixed on the grimy surface of the pavement.

Derek allowed himself one second of decision-making, then rushed forward and did the unthinkable. The unthinkable caught Stiles off guard and Derek heard a sound escape him, something between a sigh and a grunt, but not a protest, and the unthinkable was reciprocated. Soon their bodies aligned, and Derek’s hands found themselves under Stiles’ white shirt, gripping his sides, then creeping up until the shirt was bunched and he took his hands out, placing them on Stiles’ neck. Meanwhile, Stiles’ mouth was doing extraordinary things to his. Maybe a little roughly and definitely lacking finesse, but it was what he wanted. With some sick sense of realization, Derek was reminded by what Stiles had said many times before: Derek always got what he wanted. He didn’t feel smug, as he had felt countless of times before.

The kiss didn’t last long, but left an impression. One of tiredness, strangely enough. Both of them had finally given in. It was as if they had spent eternities fighting to keep their eyes open to battle a deep sleep, and had finally let their eyelids droop shut, heavily, completely. For once, their minds weren’t calculating what words to say next, what jabs to choose. They simply were.

Stiles pushed Derek off slowly and walked ahead a few steps. Then he turned around and murmured, “God, you are so fucked up.”

Derek nodded, feeling inexplicably restless, yet somehow tired. “At least I’m not the only one.” He wasn’t contradicted, but when he lifted his head seconds later, he saw Stiles walking away, shoulders hung. He didn’t stop him, instead turned around and walked the other direction, unsure, and uncaring, of where he would end up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a comment made that I can’t find anymore now, which is a shame, because it raised worthy observations/critiques.  
> A part was about prejudiced and stereotypical attitudes from and towards rich people: how they are cold and unloving, and how they are treated in a bullying manner by others for their wealth, though they have no hold over it. (I’ve added ‘bullying’ to the tag, which I should’ve done before). I agree with this completely, and especially when taking this last chapter into consideration. I wholeheartedly confess that these elements are present in this fic, so, please take into consideration: it’s stereotype, it’s prejudice, and it is most certainly not representative. The perspectives of both Stiles and Derek are heavily biased by their own feelings.  
> Other points raised:  
> One, how the Hales pocket all the funds available. I’m aware that there is corruption all around the world, but the problem is I unfortunately have zero knowledge about how it actually goes down.  
> Two, the expectation that if you’re wealthy, you should help out others financially. Whether you agree with it or not is is a personal decision you should make for yourself.  
> If the person who made the comment reads this does not agree with how I reformulated their opinions or is not okay with me replying publicly, please let me know. 
> 
> Never, ever take what someone says or writes without a grain of salt, and, please, don’t let others influence your minds.  
> This may be a bit lengthy of an end-note, but I felt I should address this.


	5. Mandarin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippet.  
> As for continuing, not really sure what I've planned. I think I'll at least do a chapter where they work things out a bit OR one where Talia enters the scene again.

Three months later

 

The view from where he was standing was a mass of indistinguishable rooftops and chimneys, the sky-line jagged like the teeth of a saw. It vaguely reminded him of Mary Poppins and the chimney sweepers. Down below, there was a small town square with a few old wooden benches. A woman sat quietly on one of them, seemingly not moving, though it was hard to tell from this distance. The room he was in was up on the fifth floor and Derek was leaning against the balcony –it was in fact hardly a balcony. As soon as the double doors opened, the black rusted railings formed a barrier, high enough as to not make someone fall over, reaching just above Derek’s navel.

Somewhere behind the building, church bells rang, announcing seven o’clock in the morning. The woman suddenly got up and disappeared behind the street corner where the fruit vendor had been setting up her stall. Derek wondered where she was going, what seven o'clock meant to her, and what made her decide to wait on that particular bench until that exact moment. Apart from the square being deserted and quiet, there was hardly anything special about it. 

It was still mostly dark out, but he could spot lights being turned on all over the city, like a mosaic of orange and yellow against the dull greys and whites of apartment blocks. It was odd, for some reason, to see countless of people starting their day in the exact same way, like watching a scene of a movie over and over again.

The front door of his apartment opened to a bedroom with teal-coloured walls and a random old sink next to the bed that wasn't functional anymore. Then there was a sliding door leading to a white kitchen that had a treacherously low ceiling, and, walking further along, a small bathroom where the ceiling was again a normal height.

In the corner of the bedroom there was a simple king size mattress laid on slats and four inconspicuous bedposts. It was a mess of covers –the duvet would never stay perfectly inside the linen, and an entire patch of white escaped the blue sheets at the foot of the bed. Something stirred, and suddenly there was a head coming from under the blue with a sleepy yet annoyed look on its face. “Jesus, can’t you go five minutes without a smoke? It’s freezing in here.” Stiles turned back around and, presumably, went back to sleep.

Last night, he’d come over, out of the blue –uninvited– and a little drunk. A month before, which was about two months after his mother’s party, Derek had told him he had a second apartment of his own. Stiles had looked at him incredulously and then had asked why on earth he needed a second apartment. The truth was, he didn’t need one, he only wanted one. None of his family members knew of this place, and it was his alone. As soon as the words had slipped out –the words telling Stiles of this place, not the reasoning behind purchasing it– he’d regretted it. Wasn’t it supposed to be his, and his alone? Stiles had rolled his eyes and had casually inquired where it was. Again, he had wondered if he shouldn’t just shut his mouth and keep it to himself. Then, he’d told him.

So, yesterday, there was Stiles. Stiles with uncombed hair, pink cheeks, and slurred speech. Derek had almost closed the door in his face –he was not in the mood for shenanigans, and, he admitted, the anticipation he had felt upon seeing him was more bad than good. Stiles had finally come to him out of his own volition. But he hadn't been sober. Stiles had finally touched him without being prompted –a hand on his arm, and whether it was to keep his balance or to actively touch, he didn’t know. But he hadn't been sober.

“Why are you here?” Derek had asked, and immediately bit his lip. He hadn’t meant for it to come out as hostile. Hopefully Stiles wouldn’t turn this into a fight.

“Well, hello to you fucking too,” Stiles had answered, flinging Derek’s hope out the window.

“It’s past midnight,” Derek had started.

Stiles had waved his hand in front of his face, “This is _not_ a booty call, dumbass.”

“Then what is it?” he had asked, reigning in his irritation. He wasn’t sleeping well these days, and right before Stiles had knocked on the door, he’d finally managed some semblance of sleep.

Stiles hadn’t really answered then –no, he had in fact not answered at all. Instead, he had stepped in, had taken off his shirt –“What the hell are you doing?” – his pants, –“I thought this wasn’t a booty call,”– and had dumped himself on the bed, eyes already shut.

“Stiles, what are you _doing_? You can’t just come here without a warning.” They weren’t anything stable to each other, hardly anything positive. Three months wasn't nearly enough time to undo what had passed.

“Are you even listening to me?” Derek had walked over next to his bed, waiting and demanding an answer. The only answer that came, after more than one “Shut up”, was an angry, “I’m tired, I’m cold, and I don’t want to go home.” Then, already settled under the covers, Stiles had  reopened one eye, and Derek had relented. “Fine.” He hadn’t been sure if it was fine –still wasn’t– but, as usual, when it came to Stiles, he worked a little differently.

Derek shook the previous night away. The ash of his cigarette was deposited in a small, glass, rectangular ashtray, and he smoked on until there’s only a quarter of the cylinder left. It wasn’t appreciated, the smoking. He knew this. But it relaxed him and he begrudgingly admitted that he was addicted. There were methods out there to detox, and he’d tried them all. The gum, the nicotine patch, the cold turkey, or slowly building up to five a day, four a day, three a day, two, one, zero. Somehow it never stuck. The insides of his lungs were slowly turning black –Stiles reminded him of this repeatedly, with a look of disgust directed at his chest. Derek blew smoke in his face.

He looked down and saw one of his neighbours, an old man named Walter with the remnants of a once impressive afro adorning his head, leave the building at a very slow pace. He crossed the square diagonally and went to the fruit vendor. The transaction took no more than a minute, and Walter was back inside, unaware of eyes observing his movements. While Derek lit another cigarette, he decided the old man might still have some sense in that senile head in thinking that a healthy breakfast was the way to start the day. Derek glanced at the alarm clock next to Stiles –seven thirteen. He put on a jacket, pulled on a pair of jeans, closed the doors to his pseudo balcony, grabbed the keys hanging next to the door and left.

The elevator was out of order and the walk down warmed him up a little. As he stepped out, he heard the sirens of an ambulance in the distance. 

The square was surrounded by systematically planted trees, Himalayan birches. The cold wasn’t biting yet, but he knew it would be soon, and the sky was starting to lighten. Gertrude, the lady selling fruit, grumbled a, “What'll it be?” and he replied, “Five pears and some mandarins.” He had to clear his throat and repeat himself, and realized he hadn’t spoken yet today. She didn’t know who he was –probably didn’t care– and he knew nothing about her. Money was exchanged for a small, brown paper bag, which had a drawing of a girl biting into a red apple who smiled at him.

Derek went for a walk around neighborhood, finishing his cigarette and breathing in the fresh air as he observed the hurried people around him.

The bells announced eight a.m., and Derek headed back. He shrugged off the jacket and went to the kitchen to put the fruit on the counter. In silence, he ate one of the pears. His entire body felt tired from being up so early –he’d been standing there for over an hour before Stiles had woken– and he decided to go back to bed. In the apartment to his left, his neighbors were waking, and he heard them shuffling around. A shower was turned on. He trodded back, now barefoot against the wooden floor. The curtains were made of a light, flimsy material and would do next to nothing to keep out the morning light that would soon be invading, but Derek pulled them shut regardless. He exchanged the jeans he’d put on for a pair of thick sweats and lay back down. His own body was cold, but Stiles’ still sleep-warm from an entire night buried beneath the covers, so he dared to get closer, but Stiles made a sound of protest and complained, “You stink.” Derek felt a warm hand push ineffectively at his face, and Stiles turned away again, protecting himself against Derek’s icy hands. After a minute or two, he heard even breathing coming from next to him, and he shut his own eyes and tumbled into sleep.  

 

+

 

Before Stiles returned home, he sneaked around the rooms and found himself feeling uncomfortable. This wasn’t Derek. Not the Derek he knew, anyways. He wasn’t small bathrooms, loose tiles on the kitchen floor, messy piles of clothes and scraps of paper on a simple looking table in a normal-sized bedroom. Stiles touched the surfaces and objects, as if he needed proof of this doppelganger.

He spotted the fruit, snagged a mandarin, peeled it, and wordlessly ate every segment slowly while looking at the sleeping form of Derek, contemplating. He grabbed his clothes that lay on the floor, dressed himself, and closed the door behind him.


	6. Remorse

Three days later

 

The alarm blared, Derek smacked it, and glared at the red digits in a confused early-morning daze. Work. He needed to get up and go to work. At university he had studied chemistry, medicine and biology, and he was currently employed at a pharmaceutical lab, working under Yvonne, a thirty-year old woman who had far more experience than him and was showing him the lay of the land. At the moment they were testing the effect of dosage, posology, of a new sleeping drug and calculating its appropriate dosage. He had started studying chemistry at his mother’s insistence, had meekly agreed, mollified by her praise, but somewhere along the way he had developed an independent appreciation for the field of study mostly untainted by feelings or thoughts. It was a pleasant distraction from the reality of a mirror greeting him in the hall of his –first– apartment, which was closer to the lab, and, for this reason, more frequently used during the weekdays. Mirrors were to be avoided if possible. What he saw, he didn’t want to see anymore. It was the same face that had been staring back at him forever, but the face remained unchanged even if he himself didn’t. Removing the mirror was not an option: it was part of the wall, and even though the temptation to smash it to pieces was great, the clean-up would be bothersome and the ensuing questions even more so.

Derek sighed and pulled himself upright. The apartment wasn’t leased, but bought, so there wasn’t a boss in charge telling him smoking wasn’t allowed –even if there was, the person in question would probably not have dared demand it. So, he lit yet another smoke, coughed a few times, considered putting it out, didn’t, and proceeded to get ready.

These lodgings were of an entire different calibre than his escape thirty blocks eastwards. His mother had gifted him the place – _surprise, surprise_ , came Stiles’ voice entering his mind– upon his twenty-first birthday, three years ago. At first, he’d been ecstatic. It was truly a classy apartment, spacious and well-maintained, with hardware floors and thick walls that provided privacy and quiet. The furniture was sleek, the walls were bare –save for a picture sans frame of his family pinned to the wall above a small black closet in the kitchen–, the lighting was regulated by dimmers, from harsh and unwelcome, to subtle and cosy, and the entirety of the six rooms was barely lived in. A hall, a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom, a living room, and a spare room. A true attempt at settling in had only been made in his bedroom. The rest of the rooms one could interpret as minimalist –Derek interpreted it as empty. One day about two and a half years ago, he had bought four cans of deep green paint, and morphed the boring white walls of his bedroom into a forest. Laura had laughed in his face, while Cora merely nodded her approval. Nick hadn’t showed.

While the bacon sizzled on a pan next to the scrambled eggs, he stood there listening to the radio, alone. He ate his breakfast quickly and quietly, alone. He showered and shaved, alone. He dressed himself and left the apartment avoiding the mirror, alone.

Before he went to work, a twenty-minute walk that he usually filled with thinking about chemicals, ratios and possible suggestions or questions for Yvonne, a small detour was made to the nearby coffee shop. It was a small place, with hardly any place to sit, and from the looks of it most people were here for the same reason he was: a quick fix before the day would officially begin. He was late today, and the line was long. A yuppie in slacks recognized him and offered to let him pass, but Derek shook his head and turned back to his phone, checking the weather. His thoughts were tangled with images of Stiles in his bed, asleep and for once not defensive.

Behind him, a woman was on her phone, and a name caught his attention. “… but either way, I asked Williams to come by later so he could sign the papers, we’ll see if he’s _finally_ made a decision.”

Williams.

It was like a catalyst and his mind shot back five years, second year at university, a party on campus. He remembered standing in the middle of a crowded room bathed in artificial green light, music in the background, Stiles in front of him. They had been yelling at each other, something about a coke being spilled on purpose. Their argument had got heated and had veered off of the subject of coke and had entered their age-old rivalry, with the whole room hanging on to their every word, as if they had been watching a telenovela. Derek had dropped a very unsubtle hint about the rumours concerning Stiles and his T.A., Callan Williams, –he had known it to be true– and had watched Stiles’ face crumble, turning red and murderous. He had been shaking with barely contained fury and embarrassment, because he had known that Derek knew the affair was real, and then had realized that it was over the moment Derek had opened his mouth: the party was a cesspit of pesky gossips. No matter what ugly words spat back at Derek, he hadn’t been affected. Somehow, numb was what he had felt and his friends had backed him up, belittling Stiles’ tirade of insults. Stiles had ran off and four days later the TA was gone. He couldn’t remember a time Stiles had been more enraged, nor a time when he had cared less about how Stiles felt. Now, the remorse and shame he experienced perturbed him so much he stood completely still for more than a few seconds, only moving when a stranger said, “Excuse me,” and bypassed him, carefully holding her paper cup of coffee before it threatened to spill in a scalding shower over his shoulder.

Couldn’t acids and particles, and titrations and formulas reign a scientific silence in his brain instead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got another chapter drafted, fyi.  
> Remorse: moral anguish arising from repentance for past misdeeds; bitter regret. (thefreedictionary.com). I couldn't think of a more appropriate word for what I was trying to create.


	7. Facets

December 10, Bourbon Street, five blocks away from the old film theatre. Claudia was walking to Stiles’ right, keeping a steady stride. She was animatedly talking about the movie they had just seen, a two o’clock showing of _Tokyo Drifter_ –his mother was a film buff and had the tendency to drag Stiles to old movies, more specifically, old Asian movies.

She spoke of the aestheticism of the film and the language she was still greatly intrigued by. When she was young, she had studied Japanese intensively in the US for three years, then she had moved to Japan to drown in the culture and the tongue, yet somehow she found herself back in America at the age of twenty six, where three years later, in the fall of 1986 she married John Stilinski. In all the years his parents had been together, Stiles couldn’t remember a time his father had accompanied them to any of these slightly alternative films. His father couldn’t stand them and declared the outings as ‘mother and son bonding time.’ 

“Mom, we’re here,” Stiles interrupted. He sidestepped a fire hydrant and stepped inside the soup bar they often frequented after the film had finished. He looked back at her, smiling, while she continued to talk about the movie, “I don’t know, it was just so great, I always think it would be so amazing to work on a set.” “Yeah, me too.” And she was off talking again. It surprised him sometimes, how much his mother could babble, even more than him, which was already an impressive –some would say annoying– amount. Sometimes he couldn’t get a word in edgeways and then he wondered how on earth his father had ever survived the both of them.

Inside the soup bar, it was quite empty. At around five in the afternoon, lunch had long passed and dinner was hardly coming. Yet, there were still some people: a pudgy young student with her head buried in a thin booklet, hairs falling over her face, a forty year old woman sipping her soup staring into space, an old couple in a discussion, a group of five people sitting and talking and eating. Today’s menu consisted of pumpkin, parsnip, and courgette soup –“God, no, whose taste buds have you inherited? Get me pumpkin instead,” his mother told him while shoving a ten dollar bill into his hands. 

Stiles walked over to the counter and said hello to Elena, a Russian woman who had immigrated to the US twenty years ago and by now was used to seeing Claudia and Stiles’ face show up every few weeks. “What’ll it be for today?” “One courgette and one pumpkin.” She laughed and said, “Still no courgette for her, huh?” She had a sharp nose and a soft smile. Stiles turned around and his mother was studying one of the fliers that she had grabbed near the entrance, something about a market and alpaca wool from Peru. “Yeah, no, don’t think it’s written in the stars. Ever,” Stiles said. “Oh, and could I get an apple?” “Sure thing.” He handed over the bill, got change –a dollar and sixty cents– said thanks and made his way back to the table.

The two of them grabbed their spoons and started eating. One of the five people in the group two tables over made a joke and laughter erupted. It reminded him of his band members, with whom his relationship was a bit strenuous at the moment. It had been his idea, the stunt at Talia’s party, and now they were a little angry with him: even though they had all agreed on it, they hadn’t expected to be refused at basically every venue they usually played at, which was almost exactly what happened. Stiles felt guilty. He ate soup.

“This looks like fun. I need a new hat, mine’s old and worn,” his mother said while holding up the flyer. “Do you want to join me?”

Stiles looked up from his bowl and said, “Maybe.”

“Oh, come on! I’ll buy you one too, a colourful one. You need to keep that buzz cut warm.”

“Mom, stop coddling me.”

“Sorry, I’ll stop.”

Stiles was deeply convinced she missed having a young son, an eternally optimistic little spaz that always demanded fun. Stiles sort of missed him too.

The ate and spoke of life; her job –translator, Japanese and Polish into English and vice versa– and the office drama, Stiles’ second job at a supermarket, and the spare bedroom in his childhood home that was to be leased to a man named Benjamin Okoye, a young assistant to a law professor, recently hired by the university in the city.

Then, once their soup was done and the apple was slowly but loudly being chewed, his mother asked, “So, how are things with Derek?” Just like him, she lacked finesse in bedside manners, and had a preference for simply blurting out what was on her mind.

“Mom, do we have to talk about this again?” he complained. Again, yes, because she wouldn’t stop badgering him about it. He had told her almost everything –save for the nastier bits of their relationship, the serious insults and childish pranks– and had been on the receiving end of both sympathy and angered reprimand.

“I guess not, but you haven’t really told me much lately. Are things better?” She pushed aside her bowl and relaxed in her seat. Her cheeks were pink from the warmth inside.

“I don’t know. Yes. No. Sort of.”

“Which one of the three?”

“Uh … Yes. Sometimes. Sometimes they’re better. I still haven’t seen his mother or any of his family members, except for Nick. He was at the store yesterday and he just kept staring. It was really weird.” Stiles bit another chunk out of the apple. “And,” he said with his mouth full, a bit of spittle escaping –he took his napkin and wiped his chin, “then he just didn’t say anything at all. I said ‘Hi’, because I don’t really know him and he doesn’t seem like the rest of his evil family, but he just kept quiet, staring at me like I was some sort of zoo animal. In a way, he’s kinda like Derek. Weirdly quiet sometimes.”

His mother mmh-ed and brushed her hand through her hair.

“Have you talked yet? You and Derek, I mean?”

Stiles avoided her eyes, focused on the fruit, and admitted, “No.”

“Still not?” she said, voice louder. “I thought you said you were going do to that last Friday!”

“Well, I just kind of-,” Elena walked by and cleared the two bowls, “Thanks.” She asked if she could get them something else, and he said shook his head, “No, thank you.” Then he returned to his mother, who was waiting for an answer. “We just … didn’t.”

“Stiles,” she berated. “You need to talk to him.”

“I know, I know. We just end up not talking and do, uh, other things.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think it’s very wise to keep having a physical relationship if you’re emotionally vested in him but refuse to talk.” For all her hyperactive babble, she sure could unsettle him with declarations of, yes, wisdom. “It doesn’t sound very healthy to me.”

“I don’t _refuse_ to, mom.” Stiles put the apple core on the table, balancing it so it would stay upright. Then he cleaned his sticky fingers. “I just don’t know _how_. I start, you know, and then just, boom, I’m stuck. I literally don’t know what to say. Anything I have in mind before suddenly disappears, or seems stupid, or fake, or whatever.”

“And he doesn’t know either?”

“No, I don’t think so. We either end up yelling or … other things. Sexual things.” Stiles groaned and dragged his hands over his face –they smelled like apple.

“But he’s changed, hasn’t he? You told me that.”

“Yeah, I did. He has. It’s just difficult to put all that old shit aside. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m …”

“Holding on to old grudges?”

“Yeah. That and, he’s not very happy with me either most of the time.” Stiles was shocked by what was coming out of his mouth, because this was the most honest he had been with his mother. She was looking at him sadly, patting his arm.

Six o’clock came around, and slowly people started trickling in. The soup was good, relatively cheap, and the service more than adequate. Stiles looked around and saw the girl still reading, but now a different book, and the group of people had left. Elena was cleaning up behind the counter while her son, Konstantin, ‘Stan’, managed the register and took people’s orders. He caught Stiles’ eye and gave a lopsided smile –he was so very awkward, but so very sweet. Stiles waved at him and when the redhead in front of Stan had received her soup and went to sit down near the window on the other side of the room, he got up. “I’m gonna go say hello to Stan.”

“Okay,” his mother said. “But, kochanie, you need to talk to him. For your sake, for his.”

“I know. I will, I will.”

Claudia watched her son walking over to the counter and he immediately started talking to Stan. She’d talked to him herself a few times before, and was aware of his poor social skills. It pleased her to see Stiles put effort in trying to make the boy less uncomfortable. From the stories Stiles had told her, he had been cruel to Derek at times, in retaliation to cruelty, yet to this young boy he was kind. People had so many facets, she knew, and she hoped Stiles could change his attitude when it came to Derek Hale. He was capable of it. The evidence was in right in front of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: odonym = street name  
> Who comes up with these terms?!  
> Also, I haven't seen Tokyo Drifter, it just showed up on the net, and I thought, hey, neat.  
> Anyways, this chapter provided you with a little more complexity on Stiles' part, hopefully.


	8. Brittle

Six weeks later

 

 

“I think we should talk.”

Stiles didn’t let him continue, merely smashed his lips against Derek’s in the hope that talking would be forgotten. He roved his hands up and down, cupped Derek’s hard-on, sucked on his bottom lip and then clasped his hands on Derek’s face while pushing his body against the one beneath him, searchingly, heavily.

He had shown up again –fifteenth time, he didn’t know why he was counting–, and only had to knock twice before the door opened. Derek hadn’t ever asked why he came over after that drunken mishap –yes, a mishap, because even if nothing happened, showing up drunk at Derek’s had not been his plan. This time, Derek had dropped his hand from the door handle, had turned around and had left Stiles’ standing on the threshold, a version of _come in_. (He had walked in, had sat on the bed and … nothing. Then he’d pulled on Derek’s arm.)

The sun was sinking in the sky, the white ball of fire now orange, and it painted the blue walls slightly red, creating a murky brown colour. They were lying on the bed diagonally, Stiles clambered over Derek, knees planted next to his body. “Sti-,” “Less talking, more doing,” he interrupted.

“No, come on, stop,” Derek said, and he pried Stiles’ fingers loose where they had been gripping the sides of his face. 

Stiles sighed and got off. “That is just not a good idea. Whenever we talk, we yell. We don’t talk.” He wanted to touch again –he did so very much enjoy it– but was fairly sure Derek was not on board.

“We can’t just keep doing this.”

“Why the hell not? It’s just sex for god’s sake.” It wasn’t, though, and he knew it. Even sex wasn’t simple. It was at the very least usually tinged with anger, and Stiles couldn’t imagine it otherwise. He liked to, sometimes, but it felt foreign. Derek gave him a look and demanded, “Are you serious? If that’s all you want, go get it elsewhere.” And Derek was up, putting his discarded grey shirt back on and walking to the kitchen. The wood creaked beneath him and his footsteps thudded audibly against the floor. Stiles followed him. A tense back greeted him, head pulled back as Derek drank a glass of water. With his left foot, Stiles nudged at the loose tile that he’d spotted the first time he’d come around, which was already … five months ago? Six?

“Fine. You wanna talk? Let’s talk,” he suggested, leaning against the kitchen table. “How about this for one. Get your mother _off_ my back.”

Derek had already turned around and was now looking at him questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“Are _you_ serious? You’re not even aware of the fact that she is making it impossible for us to play anywhere? No one wants us, because they’re ‘booked full’ or, or, or ‘don’t have the means right now’,” Stiles fumed, adding attitude to the quotation marks. “What a bunch of sheit. I’ll bet all my money –all the money I’ve got left, anyways– that Talia Hale is behind this. We bruised her gargantuan ego, and now she’s crushing our jobs. This is all we’ve got, you realize? This is what I make my living of, this is where I’m supposed to get my money from, and she’s just-,” he stopped mid-sentence, aware he was speaking too quickly and Derek looked … unreadable. Anger? Or embarrassment?

The window above the sink was dirty, little flecks of filth decorating the glass. Derek turned around for a second, grated at one of the stains, and faced him again. He was always doing this type of thing, Stiles realized. It was a tell, of some sorts, of his discomfort. All his concentration seemed vested in rectifying a little imperfection. If he was so focused on these small flaws, then why hadn’t he gone to the store and purchased a tube of superglue and fixed the loose tile? Either way, it was very odd for Stiles to see a motion unguarded and so unlike thirteen-year-old Derek, eighteen-year-old Derek, twenty-year-old Derek.

Twenty-four-year-old Derek said, “I’ll talk to her.”

Stiles huffed. “Easy like that, you’ll just talk to her?”

“Listen,” Derek answered testily, “I didn’t know, you never told me. All this time had passed, and neither you nor my mother have said anything. I thought she had let it go. If you’d have just told me, _talked to me_ , I could’ve done something.”

Stiles shot out before thinking, “I don’t need you to fight my battles, Derek.”

Two hands smacked against the cabinets below the sink. “Jesus Christ, Stiles. Do you realize how inconsistent you are? Didn’t you ask me not two minutes ago to get my mother off your back? Now you don’t want my help because of your goddamned pride?”

That shut him up, because, yes, Derek was absolutely right. His old habits died hard. “I … I’m … Yeah, that didn’t make sense.” He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry.” And there. Those two words. It was the first time in history he had uttered them to Derek, and by the look of it, Derek realized. Head moving back only slightly, shoulder sagging, frown for once gone and face open.

It was quiet then, and Stiles couldn’t stand it. He got a tall glass out of one of the cupboards, filled it with the orange juice he had noticed Derek always had in stock in his old fridge, walked back to the bedroom and sat down on the bed, posing the now empty glass on the defective sink. Derek wandered in a minute or two later and took out a cigarette of the pack that lay on the dresser. “Could you not?” Stiles asked. The plastic lighter was already on, hovering, and then, poof, out.

Stiles was sat on the edge of the bed, and felt Derek sit down next to him, heaving a sigh. “I’m not … I’m not good at … this,” Derek murmured, gesturing to Stiles, but wouldn’t look at him. Stiles, on the other hand, had his eyes pierced on Derek’s black hair, his nose, his cheek.

“But … I’m sorry,” he said very slowly. “For what I did to you.”

How could such words, at times used so casually, for something as mundane as apologizing for bumping into someone, ever sound so strange? It threw him off, hearing them, probably just as much as Derek had been thrown in turn a few moments ago. Stiles didn’t know how to react. Saying, “You’re forgiven,” didn’t seem possible yet, and in equal parts impossible for Derek to say to him.

After about a minute of searching for the correct and appropriate answer, he decided. He took a breath and reassured him, “I know.” It was the only possible answer, because it was true. Seconds trickled by as the words hung into the air, significance sinking in, and he added quietly, “Me too. I … Me too.”

Derek didn’t turn his head around, nor did he touch him, only continued to blink from time to time. Stiles stared the weakening sun, hoping Derek wouldn’t say anything. He didn’t fully understand the reason behind it, but he didn’t want a reply.

Stiles picked up the book that lay on the floor next to the bed, a battered textbook about toxins, and leafed through it while the movements were being followed by a pair of eyes next to him.

Much later, Stiles touched him, and Derek didn’t demand words. They breathed in uncertainty, and touched with necessity.

They were brittle but good, and that was a first.

 

 

+

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A general, loud thank you for all the comments. It’s really nice to hear your thoughts.  
> I really enjoyed writing this, esp. creating the settings, as you’ve probably noticed.  
> @ Darkhairedhero: This couldn’t have been the grand gesture you suspected/expected. However, I think there’s something really grand about owning up to your mistake and allowing yourself to be vulnerable in front of someone you’ve had to hold your guard up against your whole life, even if it’s as simple as saying you are sorry. It implies sorrow, regret, and it is good start.

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to Pet Shop Boys, and this happened.


End file.
